“Saturday works. Were you thinking dinner or…?”
I considered. “I’m not sure yet, but I’d love to plan something for the afternoon, followed by dinner, if that’s okay with you.”
He nodded. “When it comes to dinner, you should know I’m type 1 diabetic. I have to watch what and when I eat. Sometimes my blood sugar acts up, and I have to eat something quickly…or take an extra dose of insulin.”
“I noticed your pump earlier. My sister-in-law is also type 1 diabetic, so I’m familiar with it. Just let me know when we need to adapt our plans.”
“You’re sure it won’t be an issue? It limits the choice of restaurants. A pizzeria, for example, won’t work for me.”
“Pascal.” I leaned forward, meeting his gaze. “I’m asking you out because I like you. All of you. Diabetes is part of that package.”
A pretty blush colored his cheeks. “Okay. Yes. Saturday sounds perfect.”
“I’ll pick you up at noon? That way, we can take our time.”
“Noon is perfect.”
I handed him my phone and he put in his number. “I’ll text you my address,” he said when he handed it back.
Our hands brushed, and the spark I felt wasn’t static electricity. From the way his breath caught, I knew he’d felt it too.
Saturday couldn’t come fast enough.
3
PASCAL
I’d never been a fast dresser, usually changing my mind a few times before settling on an outfit. But two hours was excessive, even for me. My bed was covered in shirts, pants, ties—even some bow ties—and a glittery top I’d bought for one crazy Halloween party ages ago.
In the end, I settled on something simple but elegant: a dark-blue polo shirt and a pair of cream-colored skinny pants that made my legs look longer—or so I liked to tell myself. No pants in the world could make me tall, but I needed the illusion. Thank you very much.
The doorbell rang exactly at noon. Of course Stanton would be punctual. Mr. Dowdell answered the door. He insisted on doing that, saying it was proper etiquette, despite my protests that I was thirty-four, not sixteen. The man was eighty-one and fit as a fiddle. But his house was too big for him, so he rented out the second floor, which was my domain. I loved staying with him, and it was a win-win for both of us since I’d never be able to afford a house on my salary.
“You must be Stanton.” I heard my landlord’s gravelly voice from the hallway. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Oh god. I rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet. “Mr. Dowdell!”
But Stanton laughed, that rich sound making my insides melt. “All good things, I hope?”
He looked incredible in dark jeans and a red button-down that showed off his broad shoulders. The silver in his beard caught the light, and those laugh lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled at me.
“You look great,” he said.
I had to swallow before I could answer him. “Thanks. You too.”
Mr. Dowdell cleared his throat. “Have him home by midnight, young man.”
“Mr. Dowdell!” I squeaked. Gosh, he could be so cheeky.
But Stanton played along perfectly. “Yes, sir. I’ll take good care of him.”
My landlord winked at me. “Have fun, boys.”
I followed Stanton to his truck, a new-looking massive Ford F-250 with a backseat. He opened the passenger door for me, and I had to hop up to get in. Thank goodness for the running boards, or I would’ve made a complete fool of myself.
“It’ll take us an hour and fifteen minutes, based on the current traffic, but we’ll see,” he said as he got in. “I brought snacks in case you need them. They’re diabetes-friendly. My sister-in-law recommended them.”
My heart melted at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you. I brought some too.”
